Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought I could
already breathe the air which floats over its surface and the odor of the
verdure-clad valley; already Lausanne, Vevay, Oberland and beyond the
summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of Lombardy; already,
oblivion, repose, flight, all the delights of happy solitude, invited us;
already, when in the evening with joined hands, we looked at one another
in silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment of strange grandeur
which takes possession of the heart on the eve of a long journey,
mysterious and indescribable vertigo, which has in it something of the
terrors of exile and the hopes of a pilgrimage. Are there not in the
human mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords that vibrate? How shall
I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in the simple words: "All
is ready, we are about to go"?
Suddenly, Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head and was silent.
When I asked her if she was in pain, she said no, in a voice that was
scarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold and
resigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that she
was going to be happy and that I would consecrate my life to her, she
shut herself up in her room and wept; when I kissed her, she turned pale
and averted her eyes as my lips approached hers; when I told her that
nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our
plans, she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to me
and I told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw
her arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as though
involuntarily.
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